


Freedom

by Mooseknucklesss



Series: Mind of a Man: Draco Malfoy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 04:44:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooseknucklesss/pseuds/Mooseknucklesss
Summary: So, I was prompted three words in a one word prompt challenge. The words were Freedom, death and life. This ficlet is part one to a 3 part series into the mind of Draco Malfoy. Enjoy!





	Freedom

Draco stood at the window at the manor looking out over the gardens where the peacocks strutted about elegantly. The grounds swept far past the birch and poplar trees, the old Malfoy mausoleum and the cottages that once housed squib servants. He loved to run through these trees when he was a kid, or at least when he remembered such a time that he had the freedom to be only a child. Not just the son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Not just a Slytherin, not just a Pure-blood. Not just a Death Eater. Just a child.

There was a time where he thought that the world was in his hands. That he could grasp life and make it how he see fit. Life was set up for him to succeed. He knew, his father told him so. His pride told him so. The Malfoy name told him too.

He could sneer with the best of them. Throw his weight and influence around on those he deemed less than him, because that’s what he was supposed to do. Wasn’t it? It’s what his father reared him for. It’s what his peers encouraged when they would discuss blood politics and pure-blood culture. It’s how the world served Draco Malfoy.

There was a time when he thought that his arrogance was only natural, given the circumstances of good fortune and even better breeding. He was proud and rightfully so. Nothing could take that pride from him. Not even perfect Potter. Sure his pride was wounded by the Boy-Who-Lived, but it was still there.

The height he drew himself to, the pedestal he placed underneath his feet only made the fall that much harder. He had thought the when The Dark Lord returned his peers would finally, fully, acknowledge his rightful place in wizarding society. Because of course it only made sense to him that those of pure magical standing should rise above. How wrong he was.

His arrogance and pride made him take up the task that the Dark Lord had assigned to him. It was his duty to uphold the Malfoy name in the absence of his father. How he couldn’t understand that that was what got his father imprisoned in the first place, he would blame on the foibles of childhood. But that’s not true. He would say, not only lack of insight and humility, but fear as well. 

Fear and doubt that what his father raised him to believe would keep his family alive and standing tall. Fear for his mother. Fear for his life. But that fear was not enough to stop him from taking the mark. Those on the outside would say that it was a cowardly move to follow under a mad man for the sake of saving his life and those he loved. But the Gryffindor self-martyrdom was not his way. By then, it was already too late.

Sixth year. How he wish that he could look back on those memories without the hazy film of utter nausea and regret. Regret so thick, it coats the back of his throat whenever he wakes from dreams of Dumbledore’s body falling from the Astronomy tower or Fenrir’s perverse hunt for first year girls. He still remembers his Aunt Bella’s taunts about his reluctance to kill the headmaster. They ring in his ear when the silence gets too comfortable.

His arrogance wasn’t what held his head high when the Dark Lord took over the Manor. It wasn’t hope either. Hope was a moot desire. At that point he knew what was in store for the wizarding world. It was resignation that kept him afloat. Overwhelming resignation the moment he saw his father grovel at the Dark Lord’s feet and convulse under his wand for failing at retrieving the prophecy. He knew he had no way out. He would at least fall with dignity.

He did feel hope once during this time. When the snatchers brought in a swollen Harry Potter, for the first time in a year, he felt a swelling of hope in his chest. Too small to carry him through the rest of the war, but the sweet syrupy feeling flowing through his veins when Potter escaped his cellar kept him holding steady under the Dark Lord’s Cruciatus. He wonders still whether that was a true turning point on his view of the war.

Regardless of whether or not that was true, he still had to pay the price. He had made choices. Some of those seemed like choices of circumstance rather than choices of conscience. Yet still, he is accountable for those actions. That was the hardest thing to admit to himself. How could Draco Malfoy fall from the great heights that he thought himself entitled to? All too easy, it appeared. Too easy to fall into the shadows of self-pity. He still had a life to live. A life that could’ve been easily lost had Potter not turned around on his broom in the Room of Hidden Things

_Potter_. He would not think of him right now. The sweet sugary taste started to fill his mouth as if his body wanted to manifest hope. Hope wasn’t what he needed. He needed to struggle. He needed to grit his teeth and shake up his notion of black, white and grey for the sake of himself. For the sake of his freedom. Not to be free of scorn, that was inevitable. He didn’t think he deserved any less. Draco would not lie to himself.

What he needed to be free was acceptance. Acceptance of his mistakes, his blindness, his reality that would not be a vignette of _hope_ and _positivity_. It will be brutal. It will be hard work. It will break him and and leave him wondering if any of the Draco Malfoy he knew was ever true. His pride would be rebuilt with silver slivers of consequence, and cast with a deep understanding of himself and his own motivations. It won’t be beautiful, but it will be whole. Only then will he be _free_.

“Malfoy.”

The call of his name startles him out of his daydream. He raises himself on one elbow on his thin cot provided with his cell to see the guard standing on the other side of the bars waiting to be acknowledged.

_**Azkaban**_. The place where he could not be free. Where freedom was a whimsy of simple minded or half-mad wizards.

“Your trial starts in one hour. Don’t get too comfortable outside this cell. Should we be so lucky to have to stay and keep us company.” The guard sneered. Draco did nothing but blink. It would not help him to irritate the guards.

“Of course, your trial should be a speedy one just like your father’s, whether Harry Potter testifies or not.” The guard continued but Draco tuned him out. _Potter_. Draco laid back down on his cot and imagined the gardens at the manor again. He could taste the fresh air of running through trees, and something just a little bit…sweet.


End file.
